


Arch to the Sky - Snippets 1998

by kalijean, SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [83]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), F/M, Gen, M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1998: Snapshots in Arch to the Sky from post-canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They made him. They made him and they were going to Chicago. They made him and they were going to Chicago and they were gonna...

Ray frantically moved around Armando's room, trying to find his dress uniform, because he needed it for the funerals, shaking and jacked up on adrenaline and terror, and why the _fuck_ was he looking for his uniform when he needed a gun instead, because he needed to get back to Chicago to stop them, so then he was calling "Nero!" and waiting for his butler, who came in with "Yes, sir?"- "Book me a ticket to Chicago." - "All flights are cancelled, sir; there's a blizzard."

And then there was snow and snow and snow and Benny laying on the snow with blood spreading out in a pool under him, staining it red, and Ray could hear the train going away, away, away with a steady clacking beat of "i-should-be-with-her-i-should-be-with-her-i-should-be-with-her." He went to go and find his coat, he was cold, he needed... needed...

And the desert night was frigid, and somewhere out in the desert there was a very, very bad man named Armando Langoustini who killed people and did bad things and treated human beings like commodities instead of human beings, but the car had just crashed -- no given cause no given cause for the accident -- and the very bad man was holding his broken little girl in his arms, both of them dying, and she was going 'Papa, papa, papa,' and crying and they found the broken bad man curled around his broken child and then they looked at Ray and... and...

...Ray woke up in...

...vegas...

...the hospital...

...miami...

...chicago...

...alone.


	2. Worse for the Wear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Postscript for Take Down, prescript for Drive.

Ray looked at the recently shipped Riv. It had a dent, and a few more dings. The upholstery was worn. One headlight and the windshield were cracked. And it was red and white.

He still didn't know how he felt about it. Why he bought it. One would think that three strikes, and you're out.

It had low miles, but mostly, it looked like it had been sitting in someone's garage, probably for years, left to fade. The clear coat on the paint was gone. The dash was sun faded, and dusty. The engine ran, but it was a little rough.

Mostly, it looked neglected.

Ray reached out and rested his hand on the hood of the car, then nodded to the mechanic, unable to force a smile. "Give her whatever she needs."


	3. Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt 'crush'; Dewey and Frannie.

Her clothes had been thrown everywhere, and they were laughing.

Still laughing, even as they moved, even as Frannie raked more marks across Tom's chest and even as he rocked her hips with powerful hands wrapped around them, sliding her across his erection, rubbing slick down the shaft. Not inside. Not yet. She liked to feel the ridge of the head across her clitoris as she slid back. When Tom had discovered that little proclivity, he seemed fascinated. Like it was _something_ in and of itself. Frannie thought it would feel frustrating, not to just push inside.

Tom seemed to get off on it, eyes locked on where their bodies slid together, his mouth parted in what always looked for all the world like awe. Frannie couldn't remember anyone really looking at her like that. Licking his lip, rocking her against him, and watching the motion of her body like it was _beautiful_.

There wasn't really any place for unease, even if the laughter had faded to her own soft moans and his panting. Their motion. His eyes.

She slid forward across him, riding the heat of her own slickness, that ridge at the head shocking pleasure back through her again. They knew this dance, by now; he knew that insistent tick of her hips, and she knew to trust the strength of his hands.

On the crest of a motion, he slid into her with a spine-melting rock.

Her head fell back, and she shivered.


	4. Persistence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renfield bakes. Ray gets in the way.

"Hey. Hey, what is that?"

"You could simply wait until it's _finished_ , Ray."

"Yeah, but it smells really good."

Ray Vecchio was a decided nuisance in the kitchen. He hovered and interfered and questioned persistently. It was impossible for someone who was six feet tall to be quite underfoot, but if it weren't, that would be what he was: Underfoot.

"You won't be able to eat it until it's finished anyway."

"You know, this is torture. I oughta call the police."

"Ray, you are the police."

Ray Vecchio was a nuisance. Renfield Turnbull didn't mind. In fact, he was quite gratified to have someone around who was so interested in his baking as to be underfoot and impatient about it.

Admittedly, the other benefits were nice as well. Case in point: Having been thwarted from finding out what creation currently graced the oven, Ray plastered himself up against Renfield's back and held on.

"That mean I gotta arrest you?"

Renfield barely chewed down the grin. "I don't think you'll be able to make these charges stick, Ray."

"Half the fun's in the take-down," Ray answered, kissing the back of Renfield's neck.

Renfield eyed the timer on the oven, then leaned back into that embrace, finally letting himself grin. "Yes, indeed."


	5. In a Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray and Ma have a talk, sometime close to 'Dance'.

"Raimundo, I expect you _home_ for dinner at least once a week."

Ma was in a mood. Ray was on his way back out to try to get some time in to hang out with Renfield. He couldn't use the excuse of a case, 'cause he had a day off, and so he just didn't use any excuse, except that he had to go out.

"Ma..." he sighed, then gestured. "Maybe tomorrow. Or Sunday. I've got plans already."

She was still looking at him. Her eyes were serious. Concerned. Strict.

Afraid.

Ray's eyebrows drew together. "Ma, I'm not... I just..."

"You're never home for dinner," she said, quietly and firmly.

And that was when Ray got it; his eyes went wide and he sucked in a quick breath. "Oh, God. No, Ma. It's not like that. I'm not out drinking, I'm not out playing pool, I'm not..." _Pop._ "I'm just... the quiet helps, okay?"

She didn't seem too reassured; she was still looking at him as though she didn't recognize him. And honestly, Ray couldn't blame her. He felt better now than he had in a long time, but he knew how bad those first months back in Chicago had to have been for them. He knew that. He knew that he scared them, with his quiet and cold, and he knew that he scared them by vanishing without a word, and he knew that they knew enough of what he'd been and done that they had every right to be afraid.

And he knew, even now, he was a long way from 'okay', if there was such a thing.

He also knew something else. He took a breath and stepped over, resting his head on her shoulder. "Ma, I'm... the quiet helps. I just drive a lot. I'm not doing anything wrong--" Not that Ma would believe that, if she really knew the nature of his and Ren's thing, though Ray would go to the mat for it. "--I'm not out there whackin' people or getting drunk or anything like that. Just... the quiet. It makes..." Vegas seem further away, with its lights and neverending rush of people.

After a long moment, she wrapped her arm around him and rocked him a little, just lightly, like he was still little. And it _hurt_ , 'cause in that moment, Ray wished he was.

"Come home for dinner, sometimes," she said, and it was accepting and resigned all at once.

"I will." Ray pressed in as close as he could, clinging hard to the feeling of just being her son. "I will, Ma. I love you."

And he did, the next day.


	6. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted as a gift for exbex on her birthday; not terribly long after Dance.

It was probably the single most inexpert blow-job that Ray had ever gotten.

It almost killed him.

Ren had little experience, but he _wanted_ , and when he went after Ray, he did it with that fierce, loving burn that seemed to be the true core of the man, when you managed to slip past his defenses and his careful masks. It was as though when the fear fell away, all of the things that went with it became far less pronounced -- the startling, the fumbling, the stuttering. Like peeling away the layers of his personality, including a lot of the scarred ones, until what was left was pure and bright and damned _intense_.

He was like that, when they made love -- restless, shifting, capable of grinning through a growl or softening to a wanting moan; all power and determination, or trembling tenderness, often both at once. Chaotic and not. It was unlike anything Ray had ever been a part of before, untempered by years of relationships, where everything slowly becomes commonplace; it was sometimes nerve wracking, sometimes a hard thrill. What vulnerability Ren gave him showing him this, he demanded in equal measures. When one went out on the edge, they both went out.

"Jesus, _Ren--_ " Ray said, and he was clawing at the quilt just to keep himself from digging his fingers into Ren's hair and taking the man's mouth. There wasn't any damn _rhythm_ , not enough of one to get him off, just heat and wet and an open curiosity about it all that added a fucking _insane_ edge to it.

Ren flicked a look up at him, and there was humor and more curiosity and _need_ , and he shivered and it just about killed Ray that he could make someone shiver with his voice. Then he slid back down Ray's shaft, only about an inch, and if Ray didn't get off soon, he was going to have a _coronary_. He was going to die, and okay, yeah. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad way to go.

Finally, it must have become apparent that the prolonged tease was prolonged enough, and Ren finally picked up a rhythm; no expertise, but plenty of determination to make up for it, and now when that gaze snapped up to where Ray was watching and barely aware of the sounds he was making, there was a naked fire in it, the kind that words don't really do justice to. Something willful, something loving, something pleading, something demanding. Something beautiful.

It was the most inexpert blow-job Ray had ever had.

It almost killed him.

Spun out to bare threads and a level of vulnerability that still terrified him when he came, maybe in some good way, it did.


	7. Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray figures out how to explain that shirt.

"Raimundo, this shirt..."

Ray looked up from where he was balancing the family's books at the kitchen table, eyebrows up. "What about it, Ma?"

"Is it yours...?"

Not unless Ray decided to start wearing RCMP issue sweatshirts, it wasn't. Ray kept the wince off of his face, though, as his mother stood there looking over the navy shirt with the white RCMP crest on it, holding it up with a little frown of confusion on her face.

Sometimes, the best dodge was the truth. "Nah, Ren let me borrow it when mine got dirty. I'll take it back to him later tonight."

He didn't tell her that his shirt had gotten dirty because he'd ended up making out with Ren against his kitchen counter, accidentally knocking their carryout off with his elbow when Ren decided to leave a suckerbite in his neck that Ray had to explain two days ago.

Frannie had eyeballed him far too knowingly for his own good.

"That was very nice of him," Ma said, folding the sweatshirt neatly and setting it on the kitchen table.

 _You have no idea,_ Ray thought, and aimed his smirk at the bills.


	8. Bootcuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would have told him he'd get turned on by a pair of jeans...

If anyone woulda told Ray Vecchio that he would get turned on by a pair of jeans before, he woulda laughed. Then again, had anyone told Ray Vecchio that he would be able to get turned on by a _guy_ before, he woulda laughed.

Life was funny like that.

Ren usually wore boot-cuts, and they showed off his legs in a way that should have been outlawed. Some guys looked good in suits. Ray looked good in suits. Some guys looked good in jeans. Ren looked _really_ good in jeans, and he wore boot-cuts. The fashion-conscious part of Ray knew why; he could probably explain how those were cut, versus regular jeans, and how they accentuated different lines and all that jazz...

Except, he was too busy appreciating them up close and personal right now.

This particular pair of jeans had apparently been around for years; ragged around the hems and clearly a much older pair than Renfield usually wore, they were faded and work-worn. No holes or anything, but they fit damn nice, and when Ray stopped over at the apartment after work to pick Ren up for dinner, he had paused for a long moment and eyed his smiling partner and decided that the man looked really, really _good_ right now.

Ren's head fell back with a soft _thud_ against the door of his apartment and he scrabbled his nails against Ray's back as Ray slid a thigh between his and went after his neck; his words came out halting and shocked and a little breathless, "Ray, what-- I thought--"

"Nice clothes," Ray said, as he wound his fingers into a pair of still-sturdy-enough belt loops on either side for something to hold onto, sliding himself against Ren and grinning into his neck when it got a gasp.

"I... you... -- _what_ \--"

Ray broke off the mark he'd just left on that smooth neck -- the one that would peek out above the high collar of Ren's dress uniform -- and then nuzzled it with his nose, rocking once against Ren and thrilling hard on the low moan that got. "I like those jeans."

Ren -- who had gone from zero-to-turned-on fast enough to probably daze even him -- shuddered and snatched at the Ray's hips, dragging him in for another grinding cant. "...wear them more often..."

"Not right now," Ray answered, and he had a damn hard time not smiling himself right out of the kiss that followed.


	9. Scent Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometime in September.

It was quite by accident that Renfield found out that Ray had worn the dress reds before, and it was quite a surprise to him that he felt as hot under the collar as he did about it. Not at Ray, though. At _Fraser_. Even though Ray had taken the uniform and donned it to cover for Fraser without Fraser's knowledge, whatever part of Renfield it was that compelled him to leave marks on Ray's neck snarled at the idea of it.

Ray was completely baffled by that and blinked, wide-eyed, uncertain, his hands falling away from where he had been unbuttoning Renfield's tunic for him. "What?"

Of course, it was that question that managed to knock Renfield out of his possessive pique enough to answer, and he breathed out slow through his nose. He could not very well phone Fraser in Whitehorse and give him a what-for about having his uniform adorn Ray Vecchio when he didn't even _intend_ for that to happen.

It was an illogical, senseless reaction. Renfield knew that. It was absolutely absurd to feel so affronted by something that had happened before he was even in the picture, that Fraser hadn't planned, that Ray had done in defense of his friend...

But the idea of Fraser wearing Ray's _scent..._

"If you ever feel the need, for whatever reason, to wear an RCMP dress uniform again, I'll gladly donate mine," Renfield finally said, shrugging his tunic off of his shoulders and bringing it around to drape across Ray's shoulders.

Ray's face was still painted in bemusement as he looked down at himself, draped in red serge, then he looked back up and grinned. "Not really my color, and you look better in it..."

 _But it should smell like you and I,_ Renfield thought; not wanting to waste the breath to say it, he took the edges of the tunic and dragged Ray into a claiming kiss.


	10. Breathe

"Breathe," Ray said, some note of unholy glee in his voice, and Renfield did if only to make an incredulous noise. He wasn't sure whether the noise, however, was more for the fact Ray said it at all, or the fact that Ray stopped doing what he was doing long enough to.

Nonetheless, he did his best to gasp, if raggedly, when that blindingly hot mouth descended on him again. Then Ray did something particularly elegant with his tongue, and Renfield was babbling before he even realized he was: "--sometimes believe you must run a perpetual fever, given the heat of your _mouth_ ; it seems almost _superhuman_ and-- and-- _oh!_ "

Ray had stopped and was peering up at him, and Renfield could _feel_ the grin tugging on his lips; quite clearly, really, given where they were wrapped. The expression peering back up was bright and laughing, and Renfield was quite certain he would die here. Then again, when it came to Ray, that was a very common feeling.

Ray winked.

Renfield stared.

Ray sucked, a little more fiercely, and Renfield's head fell back to the pillow even as his hips came up off of the bed. Moaning. Breathing.


	11. Differences

They had a lot of differences. Just looking in a mirror, or picturing them in the mind's eye. Pale skin, olive skin; blue eyes, green eyes; a whole head of honey-colored hair, and not much hair at all. They had three inches difference in height, some variations in build, definitely a difference in body hair... or the amount thereof.

Plus, Ren had a foreskin and Ray didn't.

It was the neatest thing. The _glide_ of it, over a hard shaft; the color difference between the head and the skin. It was one of Ray's many favorite things -- if one could have many favorite things -- about his other-half.

Especially leaned back against the wall, with Ren leaned back against him, gasping and trying not to squirm all over the bed, flushed and sweaty and making noises that drove Ray downright _crazy_. Then, Ray could get a hand on it, feel that foreskin slide under the pressure of his fingers, and all of that barely contained power shivering for more.

They had a lot of differences. Ray loved every one.


	12. Dashboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late September.

It was shockingly hot for this late into September, and for the third day in a row, Ray had to badger Thatcher about posting Renfield out on the stoop to play statue in the heat. It was to the point where, if she saw him coming, she pointed to the door with a look of perfected disgust and told him to go, just go, thank you and good riddance. Convenient, but even then, if Ray was gonna have a sweaty Mountie around, he wanted that sweat to be worked up in more exciting ways than _sentry-duty_.

"Thank you, Ray," Ren finally said, after half the ice cold bottle of water was gone, and he had the rest pressed to his still too-red cheek.

"You don't gotta thank me for that." Ray tossed a relaxed grin over, then looked back out ahead over the dash, notching up the smug to add, "Unless you feel like wrapping your lips around something a little more exciting than a water bottle, anyway. Won't turn it down then."

He didn't need to look over to time it to when Ren was taking another sip of water, and he didn't need to look over to know the water almost ended up sprayed on his dash, and he really didn't need to look to feel the wide-eyed look of scandalized shock he was getting. Especially since it was what he had been aiming for. He still tried to hold onto his smug, though.

Which is why he didn't see it coming until the last second, when Ren was practically on him, a mouth still cold from the water brushing past Ray's ear and sending the best kinda chill down his spine. "Then perhaps you should drive faster."

Smug dissolved, Ray did just that. Laughing.


	13. Armani

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renfield has plenty of tricks up his sleeve, for drawing in his Ray.

"Is that _Armani_?"

The scent was not unpleasant; Renfield rarely bothered with such things as cologne, and when he did, it was never particularly because he _wanted_ to, but he had spent a rather ridiculous amount of money on _this_ cologne because... well. Case in point.

Ray's nose was practically buried against his neck -- not an unfamiliar position -- and Ray was getting closer and closer in his incredulity, until he was pressed up against Renfield. Of course, the fact that Renfield was standing sentry meant that he couldn't answer like he wanted to, but yes, it appeared that it was entirely worth the bother this time.

"Jesus, Ren," Ray's voice had a husky note; touched and sweet and more than slightly aroused, and Renfield prayed in his mind that Inspector Thatcher was not looking out the window right now. If only because she had shown remarkable tolerance of this particular relationship and, while _he_ thought that a somewhat aroused and handsy Ray was something to be celebrated to the world, she did not share his opinion.

Ray's breath tickled across his skin, and Ray's hands rested flat to his chest. Ray just inhaled again, then, before making a soft little noise of pleasure that made Renfield _exceedingly_ happy to be wearing his tunic, thank you _kindly_.

Dear God, they'd never get home. Insanely, he tried to figure out if there were any reasonably secluded spots between here and the apartment.

Ray nuzzled his neck, lightly, still speaking in that low-toned voice, "God, I have such a crush on you."

And not even Renfield could completely keep the smile off of his face at that.


	14. Cheek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Armani.

"...forms to the French Consulate."

Renfield was not paying attention to Inspector Thatcher as he should have been. In fact, he was trying to stand perfectly at attention, but this was made more difficult for the desire to wiggle around to feel the marks Ray left on his skin last night. In the car. In the apartment. In the _shower_.

"Turnbull!"

"Yes, sir!" Oh. Dear. That was a little loud.

"Have you heard a thing I've said?" Thatcher asked, stepping around the desk and glowering up at him. "Constable--"

She cut herself off. Renfield felt his eyebrow creeping up, of its own accord.

"What happened to your _neck_?"

His eyebrow and now his own face were against him; he could feel the blush rising rapidly and -- quite damningly -- the urge to grin. A lazy, self-satisfied grin that he was sure she would not be pleased with. A lazy, self-satisfied grin to go with his marks and the entirely _nnnnnn_ memory of the night before. And, naturally, the urge to moon over Ray, who had been all sorts of giddy, joyful humor as he had proceeded to climb Renfield like a tree.

He pressed his lips together to try to stuff the grin down.

Thatcher's expression shifted in realization and she blushed herself, clearing her throat. "Dismissed, Constable."

"Sir," Renfield answered, turning to leave. He paused for a moment in the doorway, bobbing his head to the side, and feeling that mark against the collar of his tunic. His own rather cheeky pride in it was pushing the limits, but he couldn't resist.

Thatcher made a noise that sounded dangerously like impatience threatening to boil over.

Renfield made himself walk calmly back to his own office, before he stuffed his laughter -- joy, finding its release -- into his forearm.


	15. Falsely Accused

"I did no such thing."

"You did!"

"My answer is emphatically negative and will not change."

"You were _claiming_ your territory!"

"Now, Ray, simply because that woman complimented your choice of attire--"

"Complimented? That's what we're calling it?"

"-- _complimented_ \-- does not mean I feel the need to 'claim' my 'territory'--"

"Oh? So a thirty-second ruthlessly polite lecture about the stitching of my collar where it just so _happens_ there's a big red mark on my neck _right under_ where you're pointing ain't claiming, huh?"

"No, Ray."

...

"It is a very fine suit with a very fine collar."

...

"Ray."

"Admit it."

"I was only making polite conversation."

"Rrgh, you dog!"

"I still fail to see how comparisons to canines help the matter, Ray."

...

"I may perhaps have felt a certain possessiveness in that moment."

"Uh-huh."

"She might've at least made an effort to appear less obvious."

"Pot. Kettle. Mountie."

"I'm your cookware, in any case."


	16. Nicknames

"You're insatiable," Ray laughed, looking down the length of his own body to the Mountie perched thoughtfully in the area of his hips.

Ren seemed to be carefully considering the erection found roundabout there; Ren was laid between Ray's legs, and no joke, chin in hand and elbow pressing (thankfully gently) into something soft.

Ren smiled at his dick and then right back up at Ray. "I've heard no complaints."

"Maybe not you, but if you keep this up they're gonna start calling me Detective Walks Funny down at the precinct."

"Oh, and we mustn't have that, have we?" Ren turned his head as he said it, the words ghosting across the shaft.

Ray's dick twitched.

Ray made a noise.

"...second thought, I've heard worse nicknames..."

He felt Ren shift to put some of the weight of his arms down on Ray's hips, and Ray knew he was being held back. Anticipation was a bitch.

"Indeed?" It was breathed across the head, cooling a little bit of slick, making Ray move a little against that weight. "Like what...?"

 _What?_ God, his boyfriend was a tease, making him _think_ when he was doing _that_. Ray slipped hands into some sandy hair, working back through, giving a little tug.

Ren was gonna answer for him, anyway. Glancing up like he might see his own hair. "Detective Impatient?" His smile was real sharp. He tipped his head, speaking right up against the side of Ray's dick, making him want to hold that hair and slide along Ren's lips. "Detective Touch-him-and-die?"

There was a feather of a lick along the ridge, and Ray was figuring out all over again it was possible to moan and laugh at the same time. Those lips parted just under the head, and Ray closed hands real gentle in that hair, angling his hips _back_ to slide, wickedly, over them.

Any possible reply was lost when that mouth parted, letting him slip between.


	17. One Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late September/Early October.

There used to be exactly one lock between him and his gun, just enough time that if he heard a break-in downstairs, he could get the gun out, slam in the clip and be ready to defend his family and home.

There used to be exactly one lock because Ray didn't ever want to risk the chance of one of the kids running in and maybe getting ahold of the gun. Even though he had long-since taught them, as they grew, all about firearm safety, as soon as they were able to understand even the most basic lessons.

There used to be exactly one lock between him and his gun because there were times when Ray thought about turning it on himself, and one lock meant that he could have that extra few moments to think about it, and realize what he was thinking, and stop himself.

There used to be one lock, and then there was Vegas, and Ray slept with his gun under his pillow. He lived in almost a perpetual state of exhaustion, and that made it easier to shove his own personality out of the way, not harder; the vulnerability of sleep quickly became his bane, the one time he was truly Ray, and he couldn't afford be Ray anymore and live.

There used to be one lock, and then there was coming back, and Stella waking him from a nightmare to find herself staring down the barrel. It was not the only thing that ruined their short time together, but it was a big one. Because he looked at her, and she looked at him, and they realized that they didn't even know each other. Love, maybe. But not know.

There used to be one lock, and then there was going back to Chicago, and he locked his bedroom door for the first time and didn't lock his gun in his drawer. But he sometimes sat and held it and thought about how quick it would be over.

There was one lock now, because Ren stared over the barrel at him; no judgment, no pity, no fear, just fierce and aching empathy, and then gently took the gun away, turning and locking it in his safe box with his own service pistol, before turning back and wrapping Ray in tight.


	18. What Fourth Wall?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October.

"I dunno, I kinda like it," Ray said, though the twinkle in his eyes couldn't quite hide the concern under it. The concern which had been omnipresent to the point of frustrating for the past three days while Renfield shook off the flu he had managed to catch. While Renfield thoroughly appreciated Ray's concern, and even found the blustery fussing touching, after the first day he had wanted nothing more than to dig a large, deep hole and bury himself in it.

He loved Ray. More than words. But no amount of love in the universe could make the flu more pleasant, and being worried over by a mother-hen of a man had chipped away quite steadily at his patience. He hadn't snapped. But he was more than a little relieved to be on the mend, and that was as much for an end of Ray's fussing as it was for the fact that being ill was unpleasant in and of itself.

"I look ridiculous," Renfield replied, but at least now, he could say it with a smile. He eyed himself in the mirror, newly showered, and picked up his shaving cream. He had not shaved in three days and was sporting a fair bit of stubble. He'd always preferred to be clean-shaven; this look just made him feel silly. "I feel as though I should be acting as a heavy for the Canadian mob."

Ray snorted a startled laugh, staring incredulously back at him in the mirror, and then dissolved into gales of laughter, stuffing his face into Renfield's shoulderblade to muffle it.

On the mend, indeed. Renfield was grinning to himself as he felt the warm laughter against his back, reaching for his razor.


	19. Maple Leaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November.

The leaves were brown -- ha -- and tamped down wet and disintegrating. Ray didn't even really know why he noticed, except that it was about as different from the desert as you could get, especially given the dirty patches of snow.

"You sure you're okay?" he finally asked, and it was probably getting grating, 'cause it wasn't the first or the fifth or the tenth time he had.

Ren took more time to answer than normal, but it wasn't 'cause he was thinking about the answer. It was 'cause he didn't quite hear the question. Ray had come to recognize that. Then, Ren blinked out of the fifty-yard distant look and gave a faint shake of his head like he was waking up. "Hm? Ah... yes, Ray."

Ray wasn't anything like convinced. He opened the door of the apartment building and led Renfield in by his arm. He already knew he was in for another night of restless sleep and restless pacing and eerie silence. November apparently was taking its toll. On both of 'em.

"Okay," Ray said, 'cause he didn't know what else he could do. He hovered around, he took up trying to clean the apartment, he even tried his hand at cooking. He did his best to hold on. And maybe he was getting somewhere, 'cause at least sometimes, Renfield would tuck his head against Ray's shoulder and hold on tight, jaw knotted, until he couldn't hold his eyes open anymore and then he'd shudder, and relax, and sleep.

Those were the times Ray didn't move, aside to pet through that sandy hair, like maybe he could stand between his Ren and whatever it was haunting him.

Hopefully, he'd be able to do that tonight. He reached up and picked a stray, brown maple leaf off of Ren's shoulder as they headed up the stairs, and settled into the calm, easy patience he instinctively knew they'd both need.


	20. All or None

Ray looked down at the financial summary in hand. Looked at the letter he'd drafted. Looked at the paperwork on the desk.

None of it was police related. Not this time.

His retirement accounts. The family's accounts. His assets. His debts. Everything that made up his life; insurance policies and vehicle titles and trusts. His will.

He carefully gathered the papers up and paper-clipped them again, then slipped them back into the desk and settled behind it, looking off into the distance thoughtfully, somewhere North.


	21. New Horizons

Frannie stared at herself in profile in the full-length mirror, and wondered what she would look like in another month.

 

Maria looked at the bills on the kitchen table, alongside the bank statements, and decided that if Ray could manage the finances, then so could she.

 

Tony made a face when he signed the job application.

 

Their mother sat looking at family pictures in the album, face set in serious lines, and then looked at the pink cover of the book sitting on the coffee table titled _Coming Out to Parents: A Two-Way Survival Guide_.

 

Ray curled himself tighter around Ren, a fierce little motion of protectiveness, and watched the new day break through the window.


End file.
